


Singing with a Stranger

by idmakeitbehave



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Neighbors, Singing, disaster neighbors and a disaster meeting and so much fluff that you can drown in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idmakeitbehave/pseuds/idmakeitbehave
Summary: One night, Spencer hears someone singing in their shower from the apartment next-door. He finds himself enchanted and, despite telling himself that he's being ridiculous, he can't get that voice out of his head.Things progress beyond anything he could have ever expected.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 153





	Singing with a Stranger

Spencer almost dies the first time he hears it.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but it sure _feels_ like it. He’s so caught off guard that he jumps, losing his footing and slipping to his near-death. Luckily he gets a hold of the handle on the shower door, very narrowly avoiding a complete disaster. He’s quite grateful for that for a variety of reasons, least of all that he would probably get stuck in this tiny bathtub and he absolutely _cannot_ deal with the mortification that would come with that.

He rights himself, standing back up so suddenly that his head slams into the showerhead. Goddamn _tiny_ shower.

Once the immediate throbbing in his head subsides, he remembers exactly what caused this whole mess in the first place.

The voice.

It’s still there, still coming from the other side of the wall.

_“I got some color back, she thinks so too. I laugh like me again, she laughs like you.”_

Spencer had long ago gotten used to the idea of there being another shower just on the other side of his bathroom. When he hears it turn on, it’s almost like white noise at this point, something that he unconsciously ignores.

But this? This he can’t ignore.

He doesn’t recognize what this mystery voice is singing, but he does know that it’s beautiful.

The song _and_ the voice. It’s dulcet, the words flowing smoothly. There’s a simple kind of bliss in it, one that Spencer doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. Now though? He can’t imagine not knowing it.

_“I wouldn't know where to start, sweet music playing in the dark. Be still, my foolish heart, don't ruin this on me.”_

Spencer stands in the shower for much longer than is necessary, eyes closed and face upturned towards the water as he listens. It feels like it should be creepy. Maybe it _is_ creepy, but he can’t pull himself away until the other shower stops, the voice fades. By the time he gets out, his fingers and toes are pruney, his arms covered in goosebumps from the sudden cold air.

He finds himself thinking about that voice for days afterwards.

It definitely wasn’t old Mr. Caldwell, that’s for sure. Had Spencer really been away for work so long that he missed his next-door neighbor of six years moving out? _And_ an entire new one moving in? He checks the mailbox label, trying not to think about how strange he’s being. There’s a new label, but it only says Y/L/N. No first name. No name to put to that beautiful voice.

Weeks go by, case after case dragging Spencer away from his apartment. Away from the mystery neighbor. That’s what he’s taken to calling you in his head. He knows your last name, but that feels too impersonal, too weird. Not that anything about this is _not_ weird. But then, one night he hears you again.

_“Surrender's just a word till you try it out and see how hard it is to hurt with someone else around.”_

It’s 3am, too late (or maybe too early) for anyone to be in the shower, but he is. It’s just one of those things he does when he can’t sleep- stands in the hot water long enough for his skin to turn red and raw, long enough that he thinks it might wash away the horrors that he’s seen. Long enough to keep the nightmares at bay, to numb him to the inevitable pain.

It never does.

But that voice. It feels like maybe if he listens to it long enough, it could make anything better. _Everything_ better.

Spencer’s being ridiculous. He keeps telling himself that, but it doesn’t make the feeling stop.

Whoever you are, whoever this voice belongs to, you apparently are also a person who showers at absurd hours of the night. It’s a different song tonight, but still just as lovely.

_“I'm the worst I've ever been, afraid of almost everything. The skies are clear but storms are always comin'.”_

It’s low and slow and somehow just the littlest bit haunting. Spencer can feel the tension in his shoulders leave, his jaw unclenching for what feels like the first time in weeks. Once again, he stands there for much longer than he intended. His skin is equal parts pruned and red when he comes out, but he somehow feels cleaner than he has in a long time.

Maybe ever.

Clean. Synonyms include spotless, unstained, immaculate- also virtuous, respectable, even honorable.

None of those have ever described Spencer.

For the first time ever, it feels like maybe they could. Maybe one day.

It continues like this for weeks. Late at night, or maybe early in the morning, he hears you start to sing. The songs change often, but he begins to recognize them, to know them by heart. He doesn’t know the artists, has never heard the instrumentals that accompany them, but he loves them all the same.

He’s not always in the shower when he hears it, but his ears somehow perk up when the shower turns on on the opposite side of the wall. He can hear it from his living room, and depending on how loud you’re singing, he can hear you too. At least a little bit. Just enough to know that you’re there. That you still have a song to sing.

It’s not always profound or moving. Sometimes it’s more of a singalong, your voice no longer slow and full of sadness. Instead, you sing near the top of your lungs, the joy almost emanating through the thin apartment walls.

_“You feel like Brooklyn in the summer, been hiding half awake for so long.”_

Spencer learns these songs too. Of course he does. They play on a loop in his mind, over and over as he lies awake at night. It makes him smile despite himself and for just one little moment, he doesn’t feel quite so alone.

It feels like maybe there really is some hope left out there. Spencer’s not quite sure what this means.

Then he’s in the shower one night when:

_“Remember how we used to like ourselves? What little light that's left, we need to keep it sacred. I know that you're afraid to- FUCK!”_

There’s a thud before the sudden expletive, and Spencer is briefly concerned that you, the neighbor he keeps creepily listening to sing but has never met, have fallen and died in your shower. Or broken your leg, if he wants to be just a little less dramatic. Either way, it makes for an incredibly awkward situation. What does one do with something like that?

His concerns are put to rest when your voice starts again, picking right up where you left off like you hadn’t fallen to your death in Spencer’s off-the-rails imagination.

Thank god.

Spencer’s in the shower a few nights later, and he tries to ignore the immediate comfort he feels when you start up again. He once again wonders who exactly it is that lives next door to him, why you always seem to take showers between the hours of 1am and 4am, and why you can sing so exquisitely.

He doesn’t know enough about music theory (surprising, but true) to know if you’re technically skilled. You’re at the very least certainly not tone-deaf and usually on pitch. But it’s not the technicalities that Spencer finds himself so entranced by. It’s the unfiltered, unadulterated emotion behind your voice. It’s just so-

Pure.

That’s the best word Spencer can think of to describe it.

He’s in the shower again one night, listening to you sing, when he finds himself humming along without thinking. He’s heard the song so many times, could recite the lyrics in his head.

_“You grow up when you're not looking. We grow apart without knowing and all of a sudden I'm leaving.”_

Spencer’s not typically one for singing, but nothing about this is typical. He’s singing along before he knows it, quiet at first but growing just a bit louder.

He only realizes the increase in the volume when he becomes horribly aware of the sudden silence on the other side of the wall. The embarrassment floods his body, the blood rushing to his face.

Now his mystery neighbor has heard him sing, knows that he’s showering next to them. God, you probably even know that he’s _listening_ to you sing. But before he has a chance to properly wither up and die from the absolute mortification, your voice starts again. Right where he had left off.

_“One summer turns into ten summers, one lover turns into ten others, but this memory is still with me.”_

Something takes over Spencer. Something wildly and utterly unfamiliar.

He starts singing. _Again._ With his neighbor. His neighbor who he’s never met, who he only knows by the sound of their voice.

It’s ridiculous and silly and exactly, exactly right.

Spencer smiles so widely that night that his cheeks ache.

It continues like this, him singing along with this mystery neighbor more often than not. It’s weird and strange and somehow _exactly_ what he needed.

It doesn’t make any sense. He knows it doesn’t make any sense and for just this once, he lets it stay this way. It doesn’t need to make any sense. He doesn’t need to figure it out, to solve it. He can just let it be.

It’s not something he’s ever done before, just letting something be. It’s refreshing.

It’s everything.

***

Spencer’s worried that someone’s dying the first time he hears it.

He’s on his way to the basement, basket of dirty laundry in hand, when he hears a pounding noise. Someone knocking on a door maybe? And a low, dejected kind of yell. It takes him a moment to realize what they’re saying. They’re calling for help.

Spencer assumes the worst. He has to, what with all of the terrible things he witnesses on a daily basis. His gun is upstairs, because of course it is. Why would he ever need to bring a gun to the basement to do laundry? But right now, he’s starting to regret it. He briefly considers running back up for it, but if someone really is in danger, there might not be enough time.

After another split second of consideration, Spencer throws his basket to the floor, towels and sheets flying out. He creeps down the rest of the flight of stairs and towards the voice. The closer he gets, the more confused he is. It doesn’t sound like whoever is yelling is panicked or in pain. They just sound resigned. Spencer doesn’t know what would make someone sound like that.

He’s almost to the source of the noise when he notices that his shoes are suddenly wet, making him stop in his tracks. And that’s when he finally looks down.

Spencer’s standing in a puddle of water- soapy water to be exact. It’s leaking out from under the door to the laundry room, which is exactly where the yelling had been coming from. The noise has since stopped, overtaken by an almost eerie silence.

Once again, his mind jumps to the worst possible conclusion. Someone’s dead in the laundry room. Someone drowned in a pool of bubbles. He doesn’t know how it happened, but he’s seen stranger things.

He tries the doorknob only to find it locked, of course. Not for the first time in his life, Spencer wishes he had Derek’s ability to kick down doors. If he tried it, he’d probably end up with a broken ankle. Luckily, the lock itself is fairly old and the handle jiggles loosely in his hand.

After racking his brain for possible solutions, he pulls out his metrocard. It’s worn and thin, but should hopefully do the trick. Spencer says a silent thanks for his childhood obsession with learning magic tricks- one of which is how to open a locked door with nothing but a credit card. It had come in handy the many times that his mom had accidentally locked him out. He had never thought it would be something he would use now, in the dark and somehow wet basement of his apartment building.

Thankfully it only takes a second of finagling before the lock pops open. Spencer breathes a sigh of relief, but just as he’s about to cautiously push the door open, he hears something else that stops him.

It’s an almost hysterical peal of laughter, quiet at first and then growing louder and then:

_“I had a tiny turtle, his name was Tiny Tim.”_

It’s the voice. _Your_ voice. It’s laced with a ridiculous kind of amusement, but he would recognize it anywhere.

_“I put him in the bathtub to see if he could swim. He drank up all the water, he ate up all the soap.”_

Spencer’s almost paralyzed by this sudden realization, but he can’t stand there in the soapy water and do nothing any longer. He pushes open the door, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping at the sight.

The tiny laundry room is completely and totally flooded. There’s at least an inch of overly sudsy water on the floor, the smell of lavender detergent filling the room. Bubbles are _everywhere._ The floor, the machines, even on the table meant for folding laundry.

But that’s not what startles him. Someone’s in the middle of the bubbles. More specifically, someone’s lying _in_ the bubbles. Not just someone. The owner of the voice. The voice that he’s been somewhat creepily listening to for the past three months. It’s you. And you’re singing. Singing a song about turtles as you lay in a pool of soapy water.

_“And now he's stuck in bed with a bubble in his throat!”_

Spencer feels like he’s just stepped into the Twilight Zone. You don’t seem to hear him enter and he just gets more confused with every passing second. You finish singing your little song, breaking into another peal of laughter. The sound of it fills Spencer’s heart.

He sloshes through the water towards you, bending down to tap you on the shoulder. He comes to the realization that you have headphones in far too late. You let out a scream of surprise, arms swinging up in shock. They crash into Spencer’s ankles with a bang, and before he even has a chance to recognize what’s happening, his feet are knocked out from under him.

In the blink of an eye, he’s lying in the sudsy water beside you. His clothes are soaked, bubbles covering him. You yank out your headphones, your eyes wide as you stare at him.

“Oh no, oh _noooo,_ ” you say frantically, hands wiping uselessly at his drenched sweater. “I am so fucking sorry. I didn’t hear you come in, you scared me.”

For some unknown reason, Spencer doesn’t even bother trying to get up. He just sits there in the water. “I figured you didn’t hear me. I saw that the door was stuck.”

“God, thank you! Thank you for getting it open! I really am so sorry, this is ridiculous. Absolutely freaking ridiculous.” You’re speaking rapidly, an embarrassed but luminous smile gracing your face. “I’m Y/N by the-”

“Y/L/N,” Spencer finishes without thinking, the blush rushing to his cheeks as he realizes that he’s just outed himself as an entire creep.

He waits for you to call him out, to question exactly why he knows your last name. Instead you raise your eyebrows at him, grinning mischievously before standing up and holding your hand out to him. He accepts it with no hesitation and you awkwardly pull him up, both of you slipping through the pool of water.

“You’re Spencer Reid,” you say matter of factly, hoisting yourself up onto the laundry table.

Spencer blinks wildly at you before following suit. His jump onto the table is much less graceful than yours. “How did you-?”

“You’re my duet partner. I’d recognize your voice anywhere.” The smile you send his way is blinding. Spencer suddenly finds himself wishing he could see that smile for the rest of his life. “I’m not a stalker,” you continue in a hurry. “I just checked out the mailbox labels. Also I’m really glad it’s you who turned out to be my knight in- well, my knight in sudsy bubbles.” You scoop up a handful of said bubbles from beside you, plopping them onto the top of Spencer’s already soaked head.

He lets out a laugh despite himself, scooping up his own handful of bubbles and dropping them onto your shoulder, emboldened by your actions and the strange situation he has somehow found himself in. “What happened here?” he finally asks once your giggles subside, motioning vaguely to, well, everything.

“I’ve been down here for like… at least an hour I think. I broke the machine,” you say with a bashful grin. “And the door. And I used _way_ too much soap. And then I got sick of standing there and yelling so I just gave up and laid in the bubbles. I do believe you got a front row seat to _that_ mess. I kind of broke everything- I’m a disaster. ”

Spencer instantly decides that you’re the most beautiful disaster he’s ever seen.

“I can’t believe you’re my mystery neighbor.” He says it more to himself than to you as he studies your face.

“Mystery neighbor?”

He just nods. “You have a lovely voice.” It feels like a massive understatement, but Spencer doesn’t quite know how to explain exactly how much your songs have meant to him, how much _you_ have meant to him. How you made him feel like he wasn’t quite so alone, like maybe there really was some hope still out there. It feels like there aren’t enough words in the English language to fully encompass all of the feelings that are flooding his thoughts.

Everything.

It’s meant everything.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” you say with a laugh, nudging his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at you, staring until you break down into giggles. “Okay, so you’re a little tone-deaf. But you’ve got the spirit! And you’re cute as all hell.”

Spencer can feel the heat in his face as his mind attempts to process your words. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You laugh again, reaching up and brushing bubbles out of his hair. Bubbles that _you_ put there. “You wanna go out on a date?” you ask suddenly.

If Spencer was speechless before, he doesn’t even know what to call himself now. He stammers again, his cheeks burning.

You take his silence for rejection, pulling your hand away from him. “Oh, sorry, that was super blunt. It’s okay if- if you don’t want to.”

“No!” he practically shouts, almost sliding off of the table in his hurry. “I mean, yes. Yes, I want to. Go on a date, I mean. With- with you.”

Before he knows it, your hand is back in his hair again, running through the soapy bubbles. He’s absolutely certain that he looks like a drowned rat, but you’re looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You grin, your eyes sparkling. “Let’s get out of here, go get dry. Maybe I can make you dinner to make up for the fact that I dragged you into a pool of laundry water?”

“Is that-” he starts, unable to stop himself. “Is that our date?”

You shrug. “It could be the first one.”

“The first?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, duet partner,” you say before hopping down from the table. “I was thinking karaoke would be a good choice.”

Spencer almost chokes on air at the suggestion, and you both erupt into a fit of giggles.

“Okay, okay.” You wave your hand in the air in a fruitless attempt to catch your breath. “Maybe private karaoke. Can’t grace the public with our ‘gift’ for free.”

“That sounds- that sounds perfect.”

Understatement of the year.

You grab Spencer’s hand like it’s second nature, like you’ve done it a million times before, pulling him through the pool of water and towards the stairs. Your soapy clothes lay forgotten in the laundry room, Spencer’s own basket abandoned in the stairwell. Before he knows it, you start singing again as you make your way up the stairs, your hands still intertwined. It seems as though no matter the circumstances, you’re always singing. Spencer should have expected as much.

_“Time, curious time. Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs. Were there clues I didn't see?”_

Spencer’s heard you sing this song so many times before, could recite the lyrics in his head. And for once in his life, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stop himself, doesn’t overthink, doesn’t overanalyze.

He just sings.

_“And isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”_

It’s off-key and slightly off-beat and when your voice joins his once more, it’s absolutely perfect.

After years of doubt, years of loneliness, years of uncertainty, Spencer knows without question there is still hope out there. He knows that he’s no longer alone.

He’s exactly where he should be.

With you. Anywhere with you.

You’ve got a song to sing. And for the first time in his life, he does too.

**Author's Note:**

> Almost (Sweet Music) - Hozier  
> Someone Who Loves Me - Sara Bareilles  
> Brooklyn in the Summer - Aloe Blacc  
> Idle Worship - Paramore  
> Portugal - Walk the Moon  
> Tiny Turtle - random kids song  
> Invisible String - Taylor Swift


End file.
